


not quite chefs.

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging RPF, oneyplays, supermega
Genre: chris has Irish Rage tm, i dont think there IS anything to add, just silliness with the boys, matt and ryan are bad at cooking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:29:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19043026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: matt and ryan have a long way to go in the cooking industry.





	not quite chefs.

"Bon appetit, as the Russians say," Matt says with a snicker, placing the two plates down on the table, both filled with a disgusting, neon-colored, chunky mess that's at least 75% cooked onion. Ryan stifles a giggle as Chris looks down at his plate with pure disdain, as if he's been served his grandmother's rotting severed head covered in piss and mold, before speaking.

"What the fuck is this?" he asks, not a single trace of irony in his voice, and as the boys explode into laughter he remains dead serious. Matt manages to calm down enough to inform him it's his special casserole, and scolds him on his manners. "That actually looks like a biohazard," Chris comments, disgust evident as his Irish accent thickens. Ryan takes note of that and only laughs harder. "I am not fuckin' touchin' that with a seven-foot pole."

"Chris, it's all we have at the moment, just eat it!" Matt insists, stifling his laughter. "Fuck you it's all you've got! What the fuck is this shit, then?!" the sandy blonde boy snaps, standing from his seat and going into the kitchen, where he pulls plenty of snacks out of the cupboard. "Snacks aren't meals, you fucking retard!" Matt counters, and Chris looks like he's about to fucking deck him. "If you really have nothin' better to cook than a fuckin' piece of shit casserole that looks like it came from my paraplegic grandpa's sweat-flooded asscrack, then how come you can't just order some fuckin' takeout like normal humans?!" At this point Ryan hasn't been able to breathe for several minutes.

"I--" "No, shut up!" Chris interrupts immediately. "I am not goin' near that disgustin' plate of primordial fuckin' ooze! However the FUCK you created that _thing_  is beyond me, but the least you could do is kill it and spare us all!" "We're back!" Ding Dong and Julian announce, with bags of takeout. "Nobody specified so we just got a few of everything." Julian says, before taking note of the room- Ryan laughing his ass off from where he's seated, Chris with an expression of pure wrath, Matt trying not to lose his shit, and the two disgusting globules of neon onion casserole on the plates set at the table.

Ryan manages to get himself together. "Holy shit, that was the funniest fucking thing." he breathes, tears in his eyes. Matt hasn't dared to move a muscle, with Chris still glaring at him. Although the height difference isn't too noticeable, Chris is taller than Matt- in fact, he's probably taller than everyone in the room, and a 6'3 pissed off Irish dude is a very scary thing to face. "We can't leave you three for a _second._ " Ding Dong sighs, rolling his eyes. Julian has already begun to crack a smile.

"What happened?" he asks, and before the other two have even registered the question, Chris is on it. "These fuckin' limp-dicked spawns of tar-based primordial beings," he starts, accent thick and noticeable, sending Ryan into another fit of giggles. "SOMEHOW managed to fuckin' transmutate that hot pink mess of a slab of onion an' food colorin'!" Julian lets out a loud wheeze, and Ding Dong goes over to investigate. He picks up a fork and pokes at it, and once it wobbles, he proclaims, "It's a neon colored onion trifle."

Matt loses his shit at that point, Ryan struggling for breath and Julian trying desperately to keep himself upright. Chris continues to complain about it for several minutes, bitching and moaning at the point where he's gone so Irish his words take a little time to make sense in everyone else's heads, and he's speaking a mile a minute. Eventually, just to shut him up, Ding Dong cuts off a small piece with a fork and eats it.

The room goes dead silent.

"It's horrible," he promptly says, his voice deadpan and full of suffering. Nobody laughs, and Matt makes his way over. "You.. Ding Dong, I don't think that's even edible, I didn't create it for anyone to _eat."_ "I don't care."


End file.
